He sent a GIF of someone dramatically weeping into a suitcase full of money.
Nico: Tell Paris I said thanks for softening you up before Max Hayes chews you out.
Me: Paris was actually pretty good. Can’t complain.
Nico: Uh oh. You found great croissants and great sex?
Me: Something like that.
Nico: Just don’t bring a Parisian back with you unless she codes or does brand strategy.
Me: I don’t think she can code, but she can pour a perfect Jack and Ginger.
Nico: Close enough.
Put her on payroll.
I shook my head, smiling as I finished thelast bite of my sandwich. The comfort of Nico’s banter grounded me and reminded me of who I’ve been before all this Hayes nonsense.
I opened my laptop, answered a couple of emails, flagged a few reports, and reviewed tomorrow’s calendar. Then the boarding call echoed through the lounge. It was time to go. I packed up, left the last sip of my drink, and headed for Gate 11.
Back to New York, back to responsibility, and back to being the man who doesn’t get distracted.
But as I stepped onto the plane, I couldn’t help it— I glanced toward first class.
She wasn’t there.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
sam
New Yorkalways felt different after a long trip.
It’s like the city had shifted slightly in my absence. It has the same skyline, the same noise, but not quite the same version of me returning to it.
And to be honest, that’s something I really like and enjoy.
After I got home, I slept for ten hours straight. No alarm, no Rose banging around in the kitchen, just me and the silence of our overpriced, over-loved Upper East Side apartment.
When I finally opened my eyes, everything felt… heavier. Not in a jetlag kind of way, also yes, but it was more like an emotional whiplash. I stared at the ceiling for a while before reaching for my phone.
‘Max Hayes’, just a name on the screen, but my thumb hesitated. Against my better judgment, I called him. He picked up after two rings. His voice sounded softer than I remembered. He sounded kinda tired.
We talked for about three minutes, enough time for him to tell me that he wanted to see me. He was planning a family dinner so he could tell us more about what’s going on. Naomi, Susan, him, and of course, me.
“Okay," I said. “I’ll come.”
I wasn’t sure why I agreed to this. Maybe it was guilt, maybe. Or maybe it was more curiosity. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see if this man who shaped so much of my life without ever really knowing me at all, had finally started to shrink in the shadow he always cast.
Walking into my childhood home always made me straighten my spine and hold my head high. Maybe it was muscle memory, maybe it was childhood trauma.
What the hell do I know? I’ll talk to my therapist about this later.
This wasn’t a house to raise some kids and build a family. This was a house built for power. It has marble floors, white walls, and an oil painting of my father looming in the hallway like a corporate god.
Who the fuck does that in their home? Well, a narcissist.
Susan greeted me at the door like she didn’t resent every decision I’d ever made. “You’re late, but I’mglad you’re here,” she said, her lips curving into what I assumed was her version of a smile. Fuck her. “Traffic was bad,” I said, brushing past her perfume cloud. It smelled like wealth and disapproval.
